CHAPTER 47 FROM THE BETRAYAL PATH... Drums rolled up and down the line as soldiers in battle grey moved purposefully to their places bringing with them the things they would need for the long day of waiting. The day dawned warm and the men resigned themselves to another baking sun on the flat spit of Carillon. Nashe, having volunteered to serve as a messenger for Montcalm, stood with the general on an earthen platform at the centre of the lines. He peered across the jagged field to the trees two hundred yards beyond. Already flies buzzed in the heat. All was silent but for the flies and the occasional sharp command from a sergeant. Through the morning hours the silence became ominous. Men shifted uncomfortably in their places. By ten o’clock they had removed their coats. Even Montcalm discarded his as the sun beat down mercilessly. Montcalm ordered rations: each man refilled his canteen and received his bread and salt pork. The extraordinary quiet continued.

By noon they heard sporadic shooting from within the trees. French and native scouts filtered back to their lines, the last of the forward posts driven in. Though they tried not to show it they appeared frightened. A young lieutenant just returned spoke quietly with Montcalm. No one but the general heard his words, but everyone noticed Montcalm’s grim smile. The officer had looked terrified, yet Montcalm had smiled. By one o’clock the day was scorching. Men sweated, grew thirsty, the waiting was rancorous. And then in the shimmering heat they began to see mirages at the tree line: fluid wraiths dressed in green and brown. A few sputtering shots broke the silence and puffs of white in the distance brought splinters of woodchips flying and the sound of ricochets. It was too hot for anyone to care. Nothing across the clearing seemed real. “Rangers,” Montcalm muttered quietly. “It shan’t be long now. Major! Get those men up! They look half asleep. Make them get up, I say!”

To the shouted commands of their officers the soldiers shook off their lethargy. Ten minutes later there was no need for orders. Every man was watching; agape at the sight that formed in the distance. Scarlet. Columns of scarlet, great long lines that emerged from the trees like rivers of blood, from one end of the isthmus to the other. Thousands. And men knew that behind them were more, hidden now in the forest, ready to follow their comrades to the attack. The French army looked on astounded at the display of power birthing before it. And suddenly to a distant command thousands of bayonets flashed from their scabbards and they looked like flames in the hands of men as they were locked onto weapons. Steel on steel, the harsh challenge of war had been given. “My God,” Bougainville whispered, “look at them.” Then from behind those lines, from deep in the forest, came a strange skirling wail. Men who had earlier been stupefied by the heat now looked at each other aghast. It seemed the English had brought with them the martial music of hell. “What is that?” Montcalm muttered calmly. “Bagpipes, General,” Nashe answered. “Highlanders. That will signal their attack.” “I’d best get to my post,” Bougainville said flatly, departing. “That sound is enough to frighten the souls of heaven,” Montcalm again spoke softly. He turned to his line commander: “Have the men stand to.” “How many do you think, Sir?” the officer asked the question riding in everyone’s mind. “They look formidable,” Montcalm returned, “but they’ve fallen for the ruse. I find this Howe surprising. I did not believe he would panic so quickly. This kind of tactic is Abercromby’s.” “But sir,” the captain murmured, “surely their numbers will overwhelm us.” “They look strong now, Captain. But they have to cross that field. They will fight in the open. We are entrenched. No, I think not even those thousands will carry this day. Their lives will be wasted.” With the skirl of the bagpipes the red mass advanced, but the stumps and limbs that littered the field broke their lines. Men stumbled and fell, companies ran into each other as they swerved to avoid impassable obstacles. This was not the flat terrain of Flanders where their tactic would overwhelm the opponent’s lines. This was another war. As the French observed the columns break up, their tension lifted. Down the line a young ensign stood on a parapet in full view of the enemy. Sword held high he cried: “Vive le Roi! Vive notre General!” and somehow over the pipes his voice carried. A great cheer drowned his final words. And then three thousand guns opened up in a thundering salvo. The first line of the British toppled like toys in the hands of a mischievous child. The second line trod over them and into the next French volley. Then so much smoke and dust filled the air that it smothered the battle. Nashe caught only glimpses of waving flags and rushes of scarlet as the bedlam of war took the field.

The British came on, firing now, men screaming encouragement to one another. Grapeshot riddled their ranks. Miniballs buzzed through the air as thick as the flies had been. Still the intrepid redcoats advanced. Their third wave actually reached the abatis. It was stopped in its tracks, the zigzag of entrenchments placing the English in a murderous crossfire. Scores of them died. Nashe nearly wept at the sight. The French fought cheerfully at first, then grimly, destroying their foes like machines. The day became sweltering: musket barrels burned hands, cannon cracked from over use, the water ration was long gone. And finally the British were driven back. They limped and crawled but not one soldier ran. They retreated like an army. A carpet of scarlet was left in their wake. And to the cheering of the French they melted back into the forest. Rest. Blessed rest. Men fell to the ground completely spent. Others searched for water and shared what little was left. Montcalm busily continued his orders. Controlled, composed, he seemed almost serene. “Now they will try the flanks. Have runners go to Levis and Bourlamaque. Tell them to watch for attacks. Nashe, go back to Bougainville and have him stand ready for manoeuvres, then return here.” Nashe signified his understanding and turned to leave. He was stopped by Vadnais’ big hand on his shoulder. Looking up he saw the man’s face fill with wonder. “Sweet Jesus, they come again.” The red host again appeared. There was firing from the left flank. But the flanking attack had been mistimed. Too late the British commanders ordered their men to rush forward trying to counter the error. Their men broke into a run shouting as they charged. They died before they reached the entrenchments. “It seems this Howe has no regard for the lives of his men,” Montcalm said softly. “This will not be an easy day, Nashe. Now go to Bougainville, tell him to be ready.” Six times the British charged their lines. Once or twice they nearly broke through. Montcalm was everywhere up and down the line, anywhere trouble threatened. Word came that Bourlamaque was again wounded. By five o’clock both sides were exhausted, yet the battle raged on. Men had become automatons, killing machines, lost in the heat and bloodlust. A messenger came running hard from de Levis’ positions. “General,” the soldier gasped, “the Highlanders have broken our line! They will overwhelm us!” “Nashe, get Bougainville immediately. Tell him to follow my flag. The grenadiers move now!” “Sir, you can’t go there,” an officer shouted, “the Scots have broken through!” “Then that is where I should be.”

***

They arrived at the breach with Bougainville’s grenadiers just behind. The fighting was savage. Fanatic Scots had forsaken their muskets for the deadly claymores they knew so well. They offered no quarter. The French line was disintegrating. Montcalm stood slightly back of the action, his rapier drawn as he signalled Bougainville’s troops to attack. The grenadiers stormed the wall firing point blank into the Scots then charging with bayonets. They were big men. They were fresh and eager for battle. The fight for the breach became a battle of giants. And slowly the disciplined grenadiers drove the heroic Scots back. From the masses of men a Highlander appeared and charged directly toward Montcalm. He screamed wildly and swung his sword in huge arcs. Montcalm saw the man and prepared for him, but Bougainville stepped into his path. He fired his pistol but the man did not fall. Dying, the Scot swung his sword in a vicious cut that Bougainville tried to parry. The force of the blow drove the Frenchman’s own sword back into his ribs. Bougainville fell wounded with his dead assailant on top of him. Nashe tried to run to his friend but found himself stopped. Vadnais held him by his collar. “Damn you, Vadnais, let go!” “To help an enemy?” “That man is my friend!” “That man is a French officer.” “He’s wounded!” “And you are confused. This is not the side you fight for.” The grenadiers swept the enemy back through the breach. Once the Scots were outside the breastwork the Frenchmen began lobbing short fused bombs over the parapet down among the helpless belligerents. Nashe could not see the men below, but he could hear their screams. When the butchery had diminished Montcalm detached two soldiers to carry Bougainville from the field. Nashe went with them; Vadnais following close behind. Nashe had never been so bewildered. At that moment he hated Vadnais, and yet the big man had been right. Bougainville was indeed the enemy. But Bougainville was his friend. Friend or foe seemed suddenly not to matter, and right and wrong relative. As they arrived at the hospital Nashe could smell the stench of suffering. English or French, it made no difference; the only enemy here was death. And in that moment with the moans of the wounded and the smell of blood and his friend unconscious beside him, the seeds of something unfamiliar began to germinate within him. It was not something tangible. He did not recognize it yet. There was too much happening around him and too little as yet inside. The seed of humanity is not a thing that spurts somehow instantly into view. Alan Nashe had lost his youth.

***

By seven o’clock the British had lost the field. They had taken their wounded and left their dead and were gone. Montcalm, having viewed the carnage, came into the hospital to look to his beloved soldiers. There were tears in his eyes. “General,” an officer intervened, “we have them on the run. We should sortie out and finish them.” “Go and look at your men, Monsieur,” Montcalm muttered bitterly. “They are exhausted, filled to the brim with killing. The English are finished here. We may fight tomorrow but for now these men deserve their supper. See to it, sir!” With that he went to his colonel. Bourlamaque was unconscious. Montcalm stayed with him a while. He prayed. Then he approached the newly revived Bougainville. “Antoine, thank God you’re alive. You have saved my life today. I shall never forget.” “And you, my General, have saved New France today. That, no one will forget.” “We have won, Antoine, but it is not my victory. I will plant a cross on the ridge of the breastworks. I have never seen men give so much as today,” Montcalm said. “I hope we have men of the same mettle at Louisbourg. Now, I’m afraid I must leave. I need sleep, Antoine. So do you.” They watched him leave, his back bent with exhaustion. “What did he mean about Louisbourg, Antoine?” “I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you now. This morning when de Levis arrived he brought a message from Quebec. The general did not want it known until the end of this day. The English succeeded somehow in landing at Louisbourg. They’ve besieged the fort.” In the cool of the evening the flies returned to the field between forest and fort. Where there had been morning green was now blackened soot and blood. The ground was littered with scarlet. And the flies feasted upon it.

CHAPTER 88 FROM THE BETRAYAL PATH

Two o’clock in the morning, a fine,
cool darkness with the moon in its last quarter, the river like frosted glass,
the trees far above in jagged relief against the sky. The scene dwarfed the line of boats bumping softly
together in the slow current. Each of
them was crammed with English soldiers: eighteen hundred silent men awaiting
the signal, immersed in their thoughts.
Wolfe's penchant for
improvisation had turned his army about in twelve hours. The Light Infantry and 78th Highlanders were
given the lead boats. They would be the
first flight down river, the most dangerous, drifting in dark through the
gauntlet of sentries along the far shore. After them, if they made it, more landing
craft and armed sloops ‑ the Lowestoft,
Squirrel and Seahorse ‑ would follow. The third flight waited above Point Levis in
the shadowy shore opposite Foulon. Meanwhile,
the big Sutherland remained as a decoy at Cap Rouge. In the Basin Saunders manoeuvred his fleet off
the Beauport Heights. The Point Levis guns still fired incessantly.
Alan Nashe sat in the first boat
under the charge of Captain Delaune. The
men were volunteers, their uniforms covered now in dark coats. Nashe, however, wore French livery, the white
and deep blue of the Royal Rousillon, concealed by a cloak.
No
one spoke.
Wolfe had placed himself in the
fourth boat of the flight, it bumped now against the gunwales of Delaune's
vessel, close enough to keep him at the fore, far enough behind to escape
should the first boat be fired upon. He
had done all he could. Now he had become
like any other soldier; he waited.
He held a dog‑eared volume of
poetry. He read by moonlight, bringing
his face down close to the book, then closed the volume clasping it tight in
his long, thin fingers. He noticed Nashe
in the boat beside him.
"Major Nashe, have you ever
felt the thoughts of another could match your own? Strange how, after reading him time and
again, it should be this night the poet touches me."
"In
what way, sir?"
"Listen,"
Wolfe again opened the book. He spoke in
whispered tones: The boast of heraldry, the pomp and
pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth
e'er gave, Awaits
alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead
but to the grave.
He
sat back a moment, then said simply: "Gentlemen, I would rather have
written those lines than take Quebec."
"It
seems poets know the world, General," Delaune, having overheard, whispered.
"Yes," Wolfe paused,
"but my destiny is Quebec. And I will make a poem of this
battle."
He
put the book aside and studied his watch.
"It’s time, Captain
Delaune. Go with God, sir, and go
stealthily. From this point all depends
on you. You are the first stroke of my
pen. Lead me on to the rest of my
verses."

In
minutes they had cast off and were drifting down river with the tide, the boats
each fifty yards apart. They steered
toward the French shore passing beneath the high, brooding cliffs where their
enemies lay. The moon had set. They received no challenge from shore. They went slowly until they reached the
jutting hump of Samos, its cannon unseen far
above on the promontory.
Then from the shore a muffled
challenge stayed their progress.
"'Qui vive!'"
Each
man stiffened. Fingers went silently to
triggers. In the midst of the men Alan
Nashe removed his cloak and stood. In
the dark, in the water's luminescence, the pale uniform was barely visible. But it was enough.
"'France!'"
he whispered.
"'A quel régiment?'" came the reply.
"'De la Reine.'"
Gunlocks
clicked in the bushes. A young Scot, his
face creased with tension, began to raise his musket. Nashe placed a hand firmly on the man's
shoulder. The soldier quivered, then
relaxed. They heard faint whispers from
shore, then a voice.
"'Passé'".
The boats floated on.
They travelled round the Samos promontory. There
were no further challenges from the shore. Then quietly they entered a bay and from that
bay an inlet. They had come to Anse au
Foulon.
As the boat shoved gently on the
pebbled beach Nashe leaped from it searching the shadows for signs of the path.
He could not find it. He tried to recall landmarks: a stone jutting
into the water, a stand of cedar, desperately he scoured the shoreline to no
avail. He returned just as Wolfe himself
stepped on shore.
"Sir, I think we've landed
too far down. I can find no trace of the
way."
Wolfe
took the news calmly, in his element now.
"There’s no time to find
it, Major. The rest of the boats are due
in. If we bottleneck here on the beach
we are lost. Can you think of another
alternative?"
"I
can, sir," a rough Scottish voice interrupted. Captain Fraser, commander of the Highlanders,
presented himself. "This wee
precipice y' see here presents litt'l problem. It be treed t' th' top, sir. My men'l just hae t' climb."
"But
there’s hardly a foothold," Nashe argued, "the bank is soft shale. It will take hours."
"I
dinna think so, laddie," the Scot smiled. "I hae men here who know wha t'is tae
climb."
"Could
you find the path more quickly from the top?" Wolfe whispered.
"From the top, yes
sir," Nashe answered. "Easily."
"Then
we have little choice. Choose twenty
men, Fraser, and take Nashe with you.
Should you meet French sentries, dispose of them quietly."
"Aye,
sir, if y'll gie me a minute..."
So
began the incredible climb from Wolfe's secret cove. In the night sweating, straining men struggled
upward. It was hard and dangerous work,
the ground soft and breakable, never giving a moment's respite. They hauled themselves up by tree roots
grasping ever higher and the ground would suddenly crumble and the men would
slide down grappling at bushes and other men's arms, the panic of building
speed and the awful slide and knowing if they kept on they would end at the
bottom in death or a splintered spine. There
were abrasions and one or two men suffered broken limbs, but they continued the
ascent. In the end they leapfrogged over
one another in a human chain hugging the cliff, their bodies the handholds of
others. They finally made the summit.
Nashe, his leg by this time causing
him agony, was hauled to the top to join Fraser. The two men peered warily through the long
grass marking the edge, and saw nothing: no movement, no shifting of branches,
no soldier's tread; nothing. Ledrew had
been right. De Vergor had deserted his
post.
"Can y' find th' path,
Mister Nashe?" Fraser whispered softly.
"Beyond those birch trees,
less than fifty yards. But where are the
French?"
"You
find th' path, laddie, an' leave th' Frenchies tae me."
"I'll
need two men. My leg’s given
out."
"Take
three. Send one doon th' path tae Wolfe.
Then wait at th' top for me."
Three
brawny Scots helped Nashe limp past the birch grove. In moments they came to the head of the
trail. One of the soldiers descended,
stringing ropes from tree to tree as he followed the tortuous way to its base. As more of the Highlanders appeared from
their reconnaissance they too descended with ropes to continue the work. The handholds of an army were quickly set in
place.
And then, finally, a challenge
rang out of the dark.